


Birthmarks, Brothers and Butlering

by Little_Miss_Rainstorm



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Angst and Humor, F/M, I know it's mental, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mary and Thomas are twins, Mental Instability, Paranoia, Period-Typical Homophobia, Twins, bear with me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-01 05:33:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5194082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Miss_Rainstorm/pseuds/Little_Miss_Rainstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas Barrow and Lady Mary Crawley have a lot in common - they're both bitchy, pale, sassy, scheming porcelain dolls with great jaw lines and dark hair. But what if these similarities aren't merely a coincidence...? </p><p>In which Thomas Barrow believes he deserves the finer things in life, and finds out he's right OR in which Lady Mary discovers her twin brother is a smart-mouthed, Mancunian chain-smoker who dines in the servants hall. </p><p>~ A wild little idea I decided to pursue after watching the little interaction between Thomas, Mary and Master George in S6E8, hope you enjoy ~</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I stole some of the separated at birth plotline from the wonderful 'The Yankee Countess' on fanfiction.net, whose wonderful Sybil/Branson story, 'A Tale of Two Twins', is hilarious and fun and a delight to read.
> 
> I hope this little yarn isn't too 'out there' and I hope you enjoy!

**_Prologue_ **

**December 1891**

They were born in the winter. It would be an ironic joke one day, that she had been icy from the beginning, that the cold in his insides had crept in on his first living exhale.

Cora Crawley was damp with sweat, though, hot and screaming as her muscles convulsed, forcing them into life, into being, into Dr Clarkson's arms. He was a much younger man then, not young by any stretch, but much younger. He extracted the expected child first, the girl, wailing into the waiting world and handed to a nurse. Cora's eyes grew wide and pale when the words reached her ears.

_I think...I think they might be twins!_

No, no, no. Not Twins. They ran in her family. Her fucking family. A late wedding gift from her side. She cursed her mother, her grandmother, her Great Aunt Millicent, for giving her the possibility of twins in her blood, for neglecting to inform her just how sodding painful this was! She was only meant to have one, one little baby, one set of pushes. She wished, in sudden delirium, to be a rabbit. She'd read somewhere that rabbits could absorb their unwanted young.

Nevertheless, and swearing like a sailor on leave, her weary body forced the other one out.

Later, in a bout of post-apocalyptic remorse, with her hair plastered to her head and her husband smiling and dry at her side, she named the girl after her Grandmother, to apologise for the language, and cuddled the other one to her chest. She thought mournfully of rabbits, resolving to love him more to atone for her selfishness.

He had a brown birthmark on his back, shaped a little like Continental Europe. She kissed it softly, lips spanning France to Russia in her desperation to love him. He squirmed in her arms.

"What shall we call him, Robert?" She mumbled fondly, watching him yawn, brushing back his damp, dark hair.

"He looks..." Robert said playfully, rocking the small bundle of Mary in his arms and looking lovingly at his wife, "He definitely looks like a Thomas. Don't you agree?"

"Thomas," She yawned too, trailing the 'a'. "Have we ever had a Thomas before?"

"No," Robert smiled, "He'll be the first. Lord Thomas Grantham, doesn't that sound nice?"

She mumbled her assent, trailing her son's name into the darkness as she fell into a deep sleep.

"Thomas and Mary," Lord Grantham smiled to himself, leaning back against the cushions, holding his daughter and watching his son.

They had six blissful days, that is all. 

The name 'Thomas' was not spoken again at Downton Abbey, not for sixteen long years. It became practically a curse word. Until the day a smirking, gangly young man arrived at Mr Carson's door, pushing his dark hair out of his face as he inquired about a job.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really glad people seem to be liking this story, I've never had such a quick or enthusiastic response before! The gaps will be filled in soon and all will be revealed, but for this chapter we're jumping forward in time a bit. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy! ~ LMR

**February 1908**

Thomas Barrow knew he was many things; handsome, witty, intelligent…a little cocky, even he could admit it. He was a few months into his sixteenth year and still waiting to grow into a few of his limbs. He was good with clocks and he was good with women. He reasoned this was probably because, as his father often said, clocks and women were very similar – temperamental, delicate, always reminding you of the time and susceptible to a little winding up. It may also have had something to do with his apathy to them; he could appreciate a beautiful woman with all the sexual vigor of admiring a beautiful lamp, and therefore didn’t stammer unattractively at them like the other boys at the shop, bending their knees to keep their hips below the counter. It was ironic really, being given all the tools for wooing and none of the desire. Nonetheless, it usually meant he sold the most, which warmed the competitive core of his heart, if not the front of his trousers.  

Thomas knew he was many things. The one thing he was not, however, was anyone’s whipping boy.

He gritted his teeth, watching Manchester slip away in a blur of green and brown, his tight breath fogging up the window. The old man had done it once to many times. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his muscles tightening at the recollection, seizing the tender skin of all-too-new bruises. The pain dissolved any regret he felt, any guilt for packing his bags in the night and slipping out in the grey dawn while the old man snored.

He thought, absently, that they could probably make a replica of the old man’s belt based on the dark purple patterns stretching the length of him. Particularly the buckle. He was fond of using the buckle.

He winced. He bought a sandwich from the cart.

There was a newspaper clipping in his right fist, melting into an inky smudge as his hands grew tight and damp with anxiety.

 _Hallboys and Footmen required for service in an_ esteemed _household._

He’d hidden it under the false bottom in one of his drawers. One of the shop boys had a sister who’d moved to Yorkshire the previous summer. A sensible blonde girl called Doris Bennett, if Thomas remembered correctly, straight and tall and slightly triangular about the hips. She used to polish all the clock faces once a week for a few coins; she’d given him butterscotch chew the first time the old man had left a bruise. The newspaper had come folded neatly in an envelope, with a crisp set of creases ironing the paper into an accordion, and it announced that she was to marry a bland farmer named Tim.

Thomas had flipped through the small cross-section of a foreign newspaper, the four-page window into another _world_ , as far as he was concerned. An ale festival somewhere called Thirsk had been a massive success, a man in Ripon was to be hanged for theft, someone called Mrs Patmore had won some inconsequential rustic pie competition. He ached to be a part of it, to get away from the mechanical world in which he lived, a world that was constantly ticking. Mrs Bennett had let him snip the little advert neatly from the back of the paper before she framed it.

He hadn’t taken himself seriously at first, scoffing at the thought of taking his hard won savings and a measly scrap of paper and leaving. But the thought was warm and insidious, completely mad but possible, within his grasp – if he had the guts, nothing was stopping him. And one chilly night, after the old man had gotten overzealous with a belt and his fists, Thomas had found the guts and his mother’s old suitcase.

The conductor shuffled through the third class carriage, mumbling about the next stop. It was York, the one he was looking for. Thomas brushed the crumbs from the jacket of his Sunday best, checked his pocket for the paltry remains of his savings and retrieved his suitcase. He paused for a moment, staring at his right wrist.   

He unclasped the leather band of his watch and set it, curled like a dead spider, on the windowsill. The train rolled to a slow stop. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've toyed with the chronology a bit so Thomas arrives at Downton a little earlier than he does in the canon, and he's a little younger and less experienced when we meet him. Therefore, in this chapter, there's a little bit of internalized homophobia - just giving you a heads up! 
> 
> I'm so jazzed that you guys seem to be enjoying this so far! Thank you so much for reading and please let me know what you think of this chapter ~ LMR x

**February 1908**

It was only when Thomas had taken two buses and a short, expensive hansom cab ride, that his heart sank to his knees. He stilled breathlessly against a brick wall near the high street of Downton village, between a pub, roaring dully with patrons, and a dressmaker’s, suddenly unable to stand upright unaided.

What had he done?

His face drained of all colour as the enormity of it crashed down over him, cold and heavy, like an open-ended gutter during a monsoon. What had he been thinking? He had no job, nor a guarantee of a job, he knew no-one here – he didn’t even know what part of Yorkshire Doris and her inconsequential husband lived. It was early evening now, the sky was full of darkening colours and it was too late to go back, even if he could afford it. He’d frittered away the meat of his savings on transport and food. God, food. He was going to starve if he didn’t get work soon, he may well begin starving tonight. How much did these rural pubs charge? He’d promised himself he wouldn’t go hungry another night if he left the shop, he wouldn’t have to – he’d be his own man, not starved for three days for winding a clock with the wrong key.

“Y’alright?” An altogether far too cheerful voice cut through his panic and the smell of tobacco brought him back to the here and now.

“I-pardon?” Thomas stammered, turning his head too quickly. He dizzily observed the man who had materialised beside him sometime during his near-breakdown. The man was tall, Thomas noticed first, at least his height, maybe a little taller. His blonde hair was darkened by pomade, slicked back in a popular style but drooping into piercing blue eyes after a day of wear. Thomas swallowed, taking in the thin cigarette stuck to the top of two pale pink lips, his grey waistcoat and his sleeves, rolled up to his elbows.

The man laughed. Thomas Barrow felt a jolt of sympathy for the poor boys who had to serve pretty women in the clock shop, his cheeks flooding with dark heat.

“I said, are you alright?” The man said, pursing his lips to exhale a short waterfall of white smoke, “You look a bit…lost,”

Thomas bristled at his tone, pitying and amused. He _was_ lost, but he’d be damned if he was going to let any stranger _pity_ him, much less pity him and then laugh about it. Especially not handsome strangers with very nice forearms and-

The jolt of desire stung his insides like acid. He shook his head to dislodge the filthy, sinful thoughts that immediately bloomed behind his eyes like developing photographs. He pushed himself away from the wall, drawing his back straight and holding his shoulders in proud alignment.

“I’m fine,” He said pointedly, tilting his chin up and attempting to convey only the deepest disdain for the man and his bloody shirtsleeves and –

The man grinned and exhaled again; Thomas’s heart stuttered briefly.

“Please yourself,” The man shrugged, still looking at Thomas with that grating glimmer of amusement.

“If I may ask,” Thomas said, the muscles in his jaw wound tight and smiling coldly, “What is so funny?”

The man thought for a moment, his cigarette practically burnt out as he pressed it to his lips again. Thomas grew more agitated with every passing, answerless second. “You, I suppose,” he said finally, blue eyes sparkling with mischief.

Thomas’s lip curled. “Oh? And what’s so funny about me?”

“Listen, Lad,” the man began, Thomas could’ve ripped his head off. There could only be five years between them, at the very most! _Lad._ He seethed in silence as the man continued. “I don’t mean anything by it…just funny to me, the way you act. If I were new in a town and a bit lost and someone offered me help, I’d take it. But, like I said, please yourself,”

Thomas narrowed his eyes, fighting the desire to break down crying. “And how, pray, do you know I am new in town?” He said, clipped and frosty, trying to hide the desperate waver in his voice.

The man threw his cigarette butt away, sending it in a glowing arc across the darkening square. “It’s a small village,” He shrugged, the omnipresent smirk returning. He pushed himself away from the wall, backing towards the door of the pub with a small wave, “Right…nice to meet you, good luck with…everything,”

Thomas was suddenly swallowed whole by the thought of being alone again, no matter how irritating he found the man. The stupid, arrogant, handsome man who made the pit of his stomach ache in a way he had been denying for as long as he could remember. “Wait!” He called to the man’s retreating back, lurching forward to grab his shoulder without really meaning to. The skin was firm against his hand, radiating warmth even through his clothing. Thomas pulled back as if he had been burned, hiding his hand behind his back.

The man turned around, grinning. “Changed your mind about the help then, have you?” Thomas could only nod meekly, swallowing his acidic response like bile. “Good lad!” Thomas practically bit his tongue off to resist a retort, “I’m Benjamin Whitmore, everyone calls me Ben,” He held out a hand to shake, Thomas just stared at it, not trusting his nerves would survive another foray into Ben’s warmth. Ben just laughed. “Right, okay. I suppose you have a name?”

“Thomas,” The younger man managed.

“Thomas,” Ben repeated, smiling. A warm tingle spread through Thomas’s body; his name sounded so much better when Ben said it. “Thomas, Thomas, Thomas,” the younger man clenched his fist behind his back, “Don’t suppose you go by Tom? Tommy?”

“No. Thomas.”

Ben laughed again. “You are a card, young Thomas,” There was something untested in the way he said it, like he was breaking it in. “Now, do you fancy a drink? Only, it’s my leaving party and my friends’ll be wondering where I’ve got to,”

“Leaving party?” Thomas felt his heart begin another descent, he knew one person and they were _leaving._

“Aye, I’m off to London on Monday but it was me last day at the big house today so-” Ben put a hand on his shoulder to guide him into the pub, Thomas practically jumped out of his skin. “Hey! Calm down scaredy cat, it’s only me,”

“Right, yes, of course” Thomas allowed himself to be led, desperately trying to hide how weak his knees felt beneath him. “Sorry, what ‘big house’?” The pub door swung open and he was pushed gently inside, the warmth and smell and dull roar enveloping him immediately.

“Downton Abbey, of course,” Ben laughed, leading him over to a table full of men about their age at varying stages of inebriation. “Lads!” He called to his assorted rabble, “ _This_ is my new friend Thomas. Liam, get him a drink, and the rest of you…best behaviour,”

Thomas was welcomed eagerly with alcohol and friendly, if a little forceful, pats on the back and shoulder squeezes and friendly punches. He felt a little happier, a little more secure in this mad new life he had chosen for himself, particularly when he caught Ben watching him from across the table.

“Thomas, tell us,” Ryan, a young farm hand at one of the larger tenant farms, began, slurring the ‘t’s a little, despite his best efforts. “Tell us…why you are here…in Downton, I mean, not just the pub…” He snorted slightly at that, Ben chuckled.

“Oh, um, well…” Thomas murmured, pushing his cup from hand to hand over the table top, “I’m here, to start over, I suppose,”

“To new starts!” Ben cheered, a little tipsy himself. The rest of the men followed suit, saluting new beginnings in all their forms with gusto. Thomas couldn’t help but smile.

“I was actually hoping to get a job at…at the um, big house,” He continued, a bit of stiff pride in his voice at a mere association with finery. The table fell silent and Thomas immediately wished the floorboards would rend apart and digest him whole.

“What…what did you say his name was again, Benji?” Liam said, in hopeful resignation. His tone suggested he already knew the answer, and hoped it was wrong. 

“Thomas.” Ben replied, they shared a look. His name didn’t sound as warm in Ben’s mouth as it had before, it sounded now like something bitter and a little scary.

“Perhaps I should go,” Thomas said stiffly, trying to mask his puzzled hurt and moving to stand up.

“Don’t be silly,” Ben replied. The petulant young man was pushed firmly back into his seat by Liam. _I am not silly._ “It’s just…hard to explain. Tell you what, I’ve got to go up to the big house tomorrow to collect some of my things, while I’m there I’ll have a chat with the butler, put in a good word and see if I can’t make things a bit…easier, yeah?”

“That would be…fantastic, thank you,” Thomas flushed with gratitude, quickly reigning himself in. These men may be nice to you now Thomas, he thought, but if they had any idea…if they knew what you _think_ about…how nice do you think they’d be? His smile was immediately dampened and he made sure to keep his hands to himself.

The evening wavered on into the night, full of increasingly loud laughter at decreasingly coherent jokes. The party members slowly began to disperse, trailing home in looping circles. They reminded Thomas of flies he’d seen under an apple tree once when he was a boy, drunk and dizzy off of the rotten fruit. After a while, it was just Ben, Thomas and the barman alone in the pub, surrounded by the carnage of a good time.

“So,” Ben said softly, his breath sweet with cider. Thomas wasn’t sure when he’d moved close enough for him to smell his breath, but he wasn’t complaining. “have you got anywhere to stay?”

“No,” Thomas admitted sheepishly, counting the coins in his pocket with clumsy fingers.

“Thought as much,” Ben chuckled sluggishly, “Come on, I’m staying here until I leave. You can…we’ll top-and-tail, yeah? Save you forking out,”

Thomas bit his lip. This man was still a total stranger, a slightly drunk stranger who might object to cuddling up to another man when he sobered up. But, then again, Thomas was desperate and homeless and a little tipsy himself and he just didn’t have the strength to say no. He stood, still quite sturdy on his feet, retrieved his suitcase and helped Ben up the stairs. It took them a little while to work out whether Ben’s room was 21 or 12, but, after the rightful occupants of room 21 called them bloody pissheads and threatened to call the police, all was finally revealed.

“Home sweet home,” Ben chuckled, stumbling into the small, neat room. It was a little shabby, but it seemed clean and it definitely outranked the street or a park bench. Plus, there was a tall, handsome man leaning heavily on him. Thomas couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing, his foul body begging him to enjoy this, while his mind condemned him for loving the sturdy weight pressing against him. In the end, it was decided for him.

Benjamin stumbled over to the bed, falling face first and fully clothed onto the side nearest the door. Thomas closed the door quietly, leaning against it as he contemplated his next move. He carefully removed his coat and jacket, hanging them over the chair in the corner. He unlaced his shoes, sliding them off carefully and placing them underneath. He glanced at the bed, considering Ben’s offer to ‘top-and-tail’. He eventually decided against it, the fact that he wanted to so badly was probably the best reason not to. He sat heavily in the upholstered chair and watched the stranger he’d met on the street snore. Thomas was grateful, but...perhaps he was pessimistic, but he couldn't help but think that Ben was an overgenerous and trusting fool; Thomas could've been anyone, a thief or a murderer. Perhaps, he thought, I should reveal myself as a sexual deviant and teach the idiot a lesson about being overly familiar with strangers. Thomas tittered hollowly to himself. 

Eventually he fell into a shallow, awkward sleep and dreamt of fantastical things, all of which were far less bizarre than his reality.   


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little look into Downton at last - let me know what you think :) ~LMR

**February 1908**

**Downton Abbey**

“It simply isn’t fair, mama,”

“It’s perfectly fair, Edith. Honestly, you do like to make a fuss over nothing-”

“It is not _nothing,_ Mary. You knew full well _I_ was next to get a new frock and-”

“Oh for God’s sake, Edith, do shut up,”

“Mama, did you hear what she just said to me?”

“Well, of course she did, you dolt. She’s sitting a foot away from you. Papa, did you drop Edith on the head when she was a baby?”

“Oh, you are just-” 

“ _ENOUGH,”_

Carson practically jumped out of his skin at the sound of Lady Grantham’s voice. She was scowling over her breakfast plate at two of her daughters; Edith was contrite, her small, rather plain face turned sadly down to her porridge, Mary stared defiantly up at her Mama, her chin in the air, only the smallest waver of fear in the widening of her eyes. Robert barely looked up from his newspaper.

“Honestly, girls,” She fixed them with a stern look, “Can’t you even pretend to get along for one breakfast?” Even Lady Mary’s pride couldn’t withstand that look, she crumpled like a house of cards.

“Sorry mama,” Edith and Mary mumbled. There was a long silence at the Crawley table

“I think the frock you have now is quite lovely, Edith,” Little Sybil said, speaking for the first time that morning, her big blue eyes turning emphatically from person to person “It isn’t fair to get a new one when your old one looks so nice,” A small smile lit up her freckled face.

Edith grinned at her little sister, Mary rolled her eyes fondly, Sybil nonchalantly began spreading strawberry jam on her bacon.

“That is _revolting,_ Sibyl,” Mary complained, wrinkling up her nose.

Sibyl only giggled, kicking her heels against her chair as she ate. “It tastes good, you should try it,” She held out a forkful of shiny, red bacon to the Earl of Grantham, “Papa?”

“I…uh, oh heavens! Is that the time?” Lord Grantham sprang to his feet, avoiding the looming pork and strawberry concoction, “I’ve let my four favourite girls distract me all morning! I’m expecting Mr Jarvis in fifteen minutes and I’m not even remotely ready. I’ll have to tell him, let him blame you wicked lot and not me,” He kissed each daughter on the head, pausing to tickle the end of Sybil’s button nose with the bushy tail of her braid, and kissed his wife softly.

Sybil was bouncing in her seat once her bacon invention was finished, glancing spasmodically out of the window every few seconds. She waited until her mother finally, _finally_ pushed her knife and fork together, dabbing her lips with her napkin.

“Mama, may I be excused from the table?” She was practically trembling, half her atoms already trying to get to the door, the last inch of her rear perched on the last inch of the seat.

“Gracious, Sybil. Calm down,” Cora replied, feeling slightly woozy, her youngest daughter spinning dizzily and frenetically in front of her.

“Mr Tyler is planting some new flowerbeds and he said I could water them, and I don’t want to miss it,” Sybil pouted, “What if I’m late and he’s already watered them?”

“Couldn’t you just water them again?” Edith tried.

“Silly Edith, of course not! Then I’d _drown_ them,” Sybil said, low and very serious, her big blue eyes already swimming at the mere thought.

“Fine, fine, of course you can go, my darling,” Cora waved her away, “Just try not to get too dirty!” Sybil was already gone, breezing past her mama with the briefest kiss. “If you’ll excuse me girls, I’m not feeling my best. I may go and rest a while,” Cora rose, pushing her chair delicately back, and standing unsteadily. The empty chair at Mary's side always made her queasy when she looked at it too long. Edith scrambled to help her, guiding her to the door and watching her climb the stairs. Carson followed shortly after, preparing to summon hall-boys and maids to clear the breakfast room.

Only Mary and Edith remained for a moment.

Mary found herself staring at Edith’s hand around the doorknob, dreading her inevitable disappearance. Dreading being alone. No matter how annoying she found Edith, their clashing personalities (or lack thereof, in Edith’s case) tended to provide at least some much-needed amusement. There always seemed a hollow space at her side, a feeling that her skin should continue a little bit further than it did, that half her words were fragmented pieces of an unfinished dialogue.

Mary Crawley would die a slow, painful, messy death while listening to Edith recite one of her short stories before she admitted it, but she was rather lonely.

She looked up from her musings, fixing an expression of contempt and boredom on her face, resolving to ask Edith if she wanted to come with to the dressmakers. She loathed the idea, but she needed someone to go along and tell her how pretty she looked, even if it was out of jealousy. Sybil always got bored in shops, wreaking some havoc or another in her desperation for entertainment. The last time she’d managed to disembowel a dress-maker’s dummy, spilling its white innards over silks and velvets like a grotesque snow drift.

“Edith, would you-” Mary looked up coolly from her plate into an empty room.


	5. Chapter 5

**February 1908**

“Once we get over this hill,” Ben said, leading the way with confidant strides, “You should be able to see the Abbey,”

Thomas struggled to keep up, trying desperately not to scuff his best shoes or stain the ankles of his suit trousers, trying to imagine the house, to contextualise grandeur against the backdrop of bald trees straight ahead, wild fields to either side and flat, rough moors in the distance. They walked along a dirt track between two farms for a while, all of the labourers greeting Ben as they passed, grinning white in faces streaked with sweat and dirt. It was a bizarre contrast, Thomas thought, as he hung back, watching Ben’s easy familiarity from a cold distance. They seemed to exist in a parallel universe, grimy and slick with sweat in shirtsleeves while he shivered, pale and dry, in his thick, wool overcoat.  Ben was fluid, he could slide into anyone’s good graces with a bright grin and a flash of his beautiful eyes. Thomas was not so lucky, itching uncomfortably to be anywhere else, his jaw clenched tight until they were out of the farmland and on the path to Downton.

“Are you sure this is alright?” Thomas staggered after him, “This Mr Carson…he doesn’t sound very…”

“He’s a challenge, I’ll admit,” Ben loped up the steep incline with ease, his hands shoved casually in his pockets, “But he likes me, even though he won’t admit it. And I like you,” Thomas cursed his heart for thudding at that, “So he’ll have to like you too,”

“Solid logic,” Thomas mumbled, extracting his foot from what seemed to be the mouth of a rabbit’s warren. “But not many people like me. You’re just a bit odd, to be honest,” Thomas’s tone was sharper than he’d intended, edged with bitter nervousness, but Ben just grinned. Thomas exhaled hard with relief.

“I can’t imagine anyone not liking you,” Ben said softly, his eyes bright and almost too warm for a moment, before he shoved Thomas’s shoulder, “Not with that winning attitude,” Thomas’s teeth ground against each other, fighting to keep an angry retort from escaping. He’d never fought so hard to keep a friend before, it was exhilarating and exhausting. “And that _infectious_ smile,” Ben smirked.

Thomas wasn’t sure if he wanted to rip that bloody smirk off his face or kiss it soundly. He shook his head, trying to dislodge the thought before it made roots.

“There she is,” Ben touched his shoulder, warm and strong and hypnotising; Thomas almost missed his first look at Downton Abbey because he was staring at the fingers wrapped around his collarbone, almost… _almost_ caressing. “Isn’t it grand?”

Thomas looked up, his eyes widening at the sheer size of the place. The clock shop could’ve fit inside it a thousand times over. The whole of his world, his experience, was dwarfed by this – retracted into a singularity by the mere sight of Downton Abbey. Did people really live here? Everything he’d ever known, ever seen, tried to compete as the image of Downton Abbey fought for accommodation in his mind. He’d seen a man starving on the street in Manchester, sleeping with an apple crate over his head. He’d seen families of seventeen or more crammed inside glorified shoe boxes. It seemed so strange that mere miles away…mere miles away, was this. This beauty and splendour and space.

“What d’you think?” Ben asked, watching him.

“I…it’s…” Thomas swallowed, trying to count the windows. They glittered back at him, pale yellow and proud in the morning sun, glinting like a thousand tiny squares of tame fire. The clock shop had had one window, a tiny, grimy thing in the sitting room that showed only two metres of empty air and a brick wall. “I wonder…if they ever get lost in there,”

There was a short silence, split suddenly in half like a fragile nut by Ben’s raucous laughter. Thomas smiled faintly, startled by the sound and warmed to his toes at his ability to produce it.

“Come on,” Ben coughed, after a few moments, wiping his eyes as the last tremors of mirth left him, “We’ll beg some tea off Mrs Patmore, and then we’ll get you a job, young man,”

Thomas half expected it to fade as they approached, a mirage of splendour, a fever dream of opulence. But it didn’t, and they walked towards the house in the quiet, cold morning. An opportunity hummed in the air like a piece of string pulled taut between two points.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! ~LMR


	6. A minor breakdown and a fallen angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I'm terribly sorry it's taken so long for me to post this, I had a very important uni interview and the time just got away from me, but here it is! I hope you enjoy :) ~ LMRS x

**Downton Abbey**

**February 1908**

Thomas burst outside, breathing hard, his lungs seizing at the sudden cold. The door to the servants’ hall slammed behind him. He slumped against one of the wooden pillars, fighting a heave, a half-eaten bun dissolving stickily in his left hand. This had been a mistake…Yorkshire, Ben, Downton…all of it. An extraordinary mistake.

It had all started so well. Mrs Patmore, a big, ruddy, jovial woman with a thin mouth and bright eyes, had welcomed him warmly, ordering a mousy scullery maid to make tea. Ben put his arm around her shoulders, a brash, blonde giant practically twice her height, as he introduced Thomas as a friend. She poked Ben in the stomach sternly, smiling in spite of herself.

“You’re far too familiar for your own good, young Benjamin,” She’d chided, pushing him towards one of the seats at the long, wooden table and putting a plate of sugared buns in front of him, Ben tucked in readily, the outer edge of his pretty mouth ringed with sugar. Thomas almost groaned. “Tell your friend to sit down,” Mrs Patmore glanced uneasily over her shoulder, “He’s making me nervous,”

Ben inclined his head, Thomas scrambled to sit down, nearly falling flat on his face. He clenched his fingers under the table, trying desperately to stop their violent trembling.

“Have a bun,” Mrs Patmore said, it didn’t sound like a question but Thomas’s stomach clenched in protest; he opened his mouth to insist he wasn’t very hungry, “Go on, you’re far too skinny, my lad. Need to fatten you up a bit, especially in this weather,” She wandered around his chair to fetch a tin from the shelf behind his head, patting him in an absent way as she passed, like he was already part of the furniture. Thomas was flooded with an odd warmth, was this what it was like to be mothered?

And then Mr Carson had seen him. The stern man had walked in behind Thomas as he nibbled obediently at a bun, clearing his throat loudly. Thomas span around, rocking the chair dangerously in his nervousness. The bun slipped out of his hands, bouncing off of his trousers – leaving a perfect white circle of powdered sugar - and flopping to the kitchen tiles, deflated.

They all stared at it, except Mr Carson.

Mr Carson was looking at Thomas, hard and unwavering, like he was something out of a dream, or nightmare. Like he was a ghost.

“This is your…friend, Mr Whitmore?” Mr Carson asked, each syllable stretching out into the next with an uneasy determination.

“Aye, tha’s right, Mr Carson,” Benjamin glanced between the pale young man and the butler. “He’s eager to work -”

“What did you say your name was, Mr…?” Carson pressed on. There was something about this boy that just didn’t sit right with him. He had been doing this job for many, many years and he _always_ trusted that tell-tale twisting of his gut. There was definitely something…off here, he just couldn’t…put his finger on it.

“I-I didn’t,” Thomas murmured, “It’s Barrow…sir! Thomas Barrow,”

There was an almighty clatter behind them. Mrs Patmore stared at him, wide-eyed, a skillet lying overturned like a shipwrecked boat between her feet. Mr Carson’s eyes grew hunched and shadowed under his thick eyebrows, his lips fading into a bloodless line. Benjamin cursed under his breath. Thomas shrank in his chair, wondering what it was about the way he introduced himself that made everyone hate him so much.

“E-excuse me,” Thomas stammered after several moments of agitated silence had passed, pitching himself forward, scooping up the bun and making a break for it. It was clumsy and, in hindsight, embarrassing, to run like a child from an awkward situation but he…it wasn’t just _awkward,_ it was hostile and angry and…and…and he hadn’t bloody well done anything wrong! This was meant to be his escape from unreasonable punishment, and here he was again, heart pounding, skin draining of colour, in anticipation of a beating, a telling off…another rejection.

He listened for a beat, imagining it was all just a story…or a cartoon in the newspaper – he imagined them all frozen in caricature around the servant’s table, Mr Carson severe with an emphasised nose, Ben dashing, Mrs Patmore rotund, as he searched for their voices and his name.

“ _If you’d just listen Mr Carson! He’s not-”_

_“You forget your place, Mr Whitmore!”_

_“Be reasonable!”_

_“Be reasonable! I cannot be the only one in this household…know as well as I do what this would…to Lady Grantham!”_

He steeled himself (as much as a terrified teenage boy can steel himself) and made up his mind. He was _not_ going to be treated this way. He’d wait for Ben and then they’d leave and then… (he faltered a little) and then…he’d make a plan. If they didn’t want him, he’d find somewhere else. He wasn’t that detestable, was he? Someone, somewhere must be capable of liking him. Ben did – said he did.

Thomas held his head high, biting his lip to stop it’s trembling, and discarded the bun. I’ll go for a walk, he thought, just down that little public path by the gate. I’ll just take a walk and wait for Ben.

He wandered out, away from the raised voices and the chaos he’d caused, into the crisp morning air. Everything was well manicured and coordinated, even in its barren winter state; he’d never seen such beautiful withering before. An emaciated rosebush rose in twisted branches, cutting the warming sky into stained glass. A small orchard of spindly trees rose up in front of him, knotted here and there with clustered blackness; empty nests, Thomas realised after a while, like posh houses closed up while the family holidayed.

As he approached a little figure, silhouetted amongst the branches, became discernible as a little girl. He thought at first he was going mad, his eyes twisting branches pathetically into a human shape, into company. But then it – she – moved, drawing one little stockinged knee up, a foot pressed against a bough as she trembled to her feet, clutching the branches above her head; branches that were so thin she could well have been clutching handfuls of the sky.

The sun lifted itself lazily over the house, illuminating her small, pale face; her bright blue eyes; a great deal of dark brown hair, nestled under a knitted hat – royal blue, like her coat and buttons and gloves. The light must have cast itself over him too – he could feel it warming his skin, at any rate, tinging the edges of his sight gold. She spotted him, her eyebrows quirking up in curiosity and excitement. She raised her hand, called something to him and fell.

Her little body fell splendidly, her small arms reaching up towards the sky as if she’d lost her grip on it. Her legs kicked gracefully, her hat floated away, her hair splayed out around her head, as if she were swimming backwards through a pool of glassy water. A small gasp followed her; she hit the ground with a sickening crunch. The whole thing took, perhaps, six seconds.

Thomas stood frozen, staring at the traitorous branch from which she fell, for a few beats, completely unsure. A ragged breath from the base of the tree awoke him and he ran to her side. Her legs and arms were splayed at odd angles, her dress and jacket caked with a little mud and inexplicably wet around the edges. She looked like a doll, discarded by some petulant child-god. He knelt beside her, trying to support her head – his hand came away bloody. It slid easily from her, the blood, staining the frosted glass red in tributaries between strands of dark hair.

“You look so small!” He realised she’d been saying, “You down there! You look so small!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed!!


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again everyone! Sorry it's been so long :) Here's a little glimpse into just what happened to Thomas back then, hope you enjoy...

**March 1896**

**Manchester**

Thomas and mam were playing one of their games. She liked to surprise him with them, sometimes, her face would get that special look, white and pinched up, and she'd tug on his hand and he'd feel a little tingle of excitement and fear. Especially when they played their favourite one, the Bad Lady game.

The Bad Lady was an evil fairy queen and she was Mam's worst enemy in the world. She thought Thomas was her son, you see, and was always trying to snatch him away from mam and carry him off into the fairy world. Thomas thought being a fairy prince would be magical, the first time they played it, but mam had explained. The Bad Lady was jealous of how much mam loved Thomas, and she'd never let them see eachother again if she got her hands on him. She'd keep him hidden away in a big, golden castle, until he forgot all about mam and how much she loved him and everything she did for him. 

If Thomas wanted to go and live with the Bad Lady and forget all about mam, then he was welcome to. That's what she'd said. She was crying as she sewed, the white sock hanging limp against her dress, pushing her forefinger against the tip of the needle. Thomas could go and live in the fairy world if he thought they could make him happier than she could. The needle pressed into her skin, she hardly seemed to notice. Thomas was her sweet boy, all hers, but if Thomas thought the fairy queen would make a better mother then he should just go to her! The sock she was darning turned a pinkish red. Thomas crawled into her lap, pushing the ruined clothing out of her hands, and sobbed into her neck. He promised he'd never leave her, never ever ever! Even if the fairy queen promised him toy soldiers and a new Sunday jacket. He clung to her clothes and promised he'd run whenever he saw her.

He was an old hand at the game now, they'd been playing it for months now. They were walking down the high street with their groceries; Thomas was playing a tinny staccato with a stick and a long, black railing. Mother's hand tightened. There she was, the Bad Lady. She had her back to them, but mam always knew her on sight. She had a big hat on, with a big feather. A man in blue was helping her put boxes in a big, shiny carriage. Mam made a loud squeaking noise; the Bad Lady started to turn, her hat like a big, red sail on a ship. 

And then they were running, Thomas's little legs tripping and stumbling as he fought to keep up. He tripped over a cobblestone as they rounded a corner and the world went upside down. His knee was gaping and red, his face was grazed up one side. His lip trembled. Mam insisted that the lady was right behind them, lifting him roughly under her arm, calling him her brave boy as they cut down an alleyway. The Bad Lady wouldn't find them here, she promised, dabbing at his sore knee with her apron, clamping her hand over his mouth until his crying stopped. There they sat, bleeding in the dirt, for three hours. After that, mam was sure they were safe, sure the bad lady wasn't going to get her hands on her brave boy. She made him promise again, holding his wrist as he strained away from her, made him promise he would run if he saw her. 

Thomas would inadvertently break his promise to his mother some years later, on a chilly February morning in 1908, when he would burst into the Bad Lady's entrance hall, her daughter hanging limp in his arms.


	8. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING - there's a lot of blood description in this chapter, skip to the end for a summary if blood really isn't your thing!
> 
> Hi everybody! Sorry it's been so long, hope you like this chapter...things are getting interesting (I hope?)

**Downton Abbey**

**February 1908**

Thomas sat in the servant’s hall. He was dazed and pale, a cup of tea cooling rapidly in front of him and blood streaked across his waistcoat and shirt. The button had come off of his left cuff in the chaos; it hung open and rusted at his wrist. Mrs Hughes and Mrs Patmore watched him worriedly from a distance, their eyes flicking from him to the staircase and back again.

Ben watched him worriedly, close up.

“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Ben murmured softly, for the millionth time, “I’m sure she’ll be fine,”

Thomas didn’t quite know what was affecting him so much. He’d seen people hurt before, seen blood. Mam had patched people up in their rooms above the clock shop, done what she could when people didn’t have anywhere to go – she couldn’t do an awful lot, she was only a half-trained nurse after all, but she did what she could. Thomas had pressed gauze and cleaned cuts and stitched, even, when mam’s hands trembled. He’d mopped blood from the floor under their table, diluting the red to soapy orange.

But this little girl. The way she fell, just in front of him, talking to him. The sound she made when she hit the ground. The way the blood poured, in earnest, from her. The sheer amount of it made his throat convulse. So much, too much. Vitality and volume and bright red blood puddling against crisp grass. Her dazed blue eyes mirroring the sky.

He’d thought she was dead. Dear God, he’d thought she was dead. He thought he’d seen life invert to death in a matter of seconds, and he had to swallow back the bile. But he still went to her, still lifted her, carefully, gingerly, elevating her head above her heart, fingers pressed hard against the wound as he carried her, a diagonal line of a girl, towards the house.

Daisy silently replaced his icy tea with a fresh cup.

There was a creak on the staircase, everyone snapped their necks violently to look. They watched his feet descend, growing into pinstriped legs, thick waist, broad chest, shoulders, proud face…a face that was serious, but not distraught. Mrs Hughes, familiar as she was with his countenance, clutched her heart, sighing hard in relief. He paused at the foot of the stairs, watching them all closely.

“Lady Sibyl,” He said, low and serious, “Is going to be fine,”

Thomas lifted the teacup in trembling hands and took a scalding sip, leaving three lined fingerprints in blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SUMMARY - Thomas sits at the servant's hall table after rescuing the little girl, thinking about how much her fall has affected him and wondering why it has. He is particularly puzzled because, as his mum was a back-street nurse in Manchester, he is used to seeing people hurt. Mr Carson comes down and tells everyone that Lady Sibyl will be fine.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


	9. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! The response to this story has been so wonderful, and I get such a little jolt of joy every time I get an email alert that someone has liked or commented on my story. My apologies that it has been SO long since my last update! Exams and coursework got on top of me, but I finally found the time to write! Hope you enjoy :)

**Downton Abbey**

**February 1908**

When Thomas was eleven years old, he spent three days delirious with fever. Time ceased to hold any meaning and the glamour of sickness made the world glimmer and swim whenever he opened his eyes. Since leaving Manchester, his days had taken on a similar unreality. In the space of less than 72 hours, he had been beaten to within an inch of his life, left the only home he’d ever known, shared a room with a stranger, seen a house that he was certain qualified as a wonder of the world and saved a girl who had fallen from the sky. Thomas imagined that this bizarre chain of events would have prepared him for anything to come. As he stood in Benjamin Whitmore’s bedroom, without a shirt, watching the handsome former footman tug at his belt, he realised he could not have been more wrong.

 “Your presence,” Mr Carson began, half an hour before, looking down his hooked nose at the bedraggled young man sat before him, “Has been requested. Upstairs.”

Thomas breathed, pointing a trembling finger towards the ceiling, “You don’t mean…up there, do you?”

“That is generally what is meant by _Upstairs,_ Mr Barrow, yes,” Carson grumbled, as if he were addressing an animal that had discovered the ability to speak.

“But I’m…”

“Filthy? Yes. That is a slight worry,”

“He can borrow something of mine, Mr Carson,” Ben leapt to his feet, “I’ve still got a few things left in me old room and we’re about the same size,”

Mrs Hughes placed a hand on Mr Carson’s arm, silencing the retort he was curling his lip around. “It’s not ideal for Mr Barrow to go upstairs in your livery, young Benjamin, though the offer is very kind-”

“Not my uniform, Mrs H, my Sunday best!”

“Mrs H!?” blustered Carson, Mrs Hughes tightened her grip.

“Are you sure, Ben? I don’t want to wear your best things,” Thomas murmured, every nerve ending in his body tingling at the thought of it, of fabric that had touched Ben’s warm skin, sliding over his own.  

“Of course. It’s only Tuesday, I can have it washed in no time at all,” Ben responded, grinning, touching the tip of Thomas’s elbow with the tip of his index finger. Thomas forced himself to look away, at the ceiling, at Mr Carson’s hard expression, at the sweat beading on the forehead of the mousy kitchen maid as she lifted a pot twice her size into the sink. “Alright with you, Mr Carson?”

Mr Carson wrinkled his monumental brow, and remained silent for a few seconds. Finally, he forced out a sigh and grunted his assent. “Be quick about it, Mr Barrow, it does not do well to leave Lord and Lady Grantham waiting!”


	10. Chapter 10

**Downton Abbey**

**February 1908**

Smoke curled up towards the sky in slow, wispy spirals. The house was quiet, humming with the silence of the first lull in many days, and Thomas savoured a moment of tobacco isolation in the yard. Little Lady Sybil was well enough to be moved; Thomas had helped arrange her in the train carriage himself. She looked like an ailing child-queen on her deathbed; a fine, heavy quilt draped over her and tucked under the armpits, a dozen pillows supporting every extremity. He had adjusted each one until she was satisfied; it was a lot of work, being a child’s new favourite person, but he found he did not despise it.

 

_“Thomas Barrow,” She’d said gravely, propped up against her headboard, a thick white bandage teasing at her brow, threatening to slip over her large, inquisitive eyes at any moment._

_“You asked to see me, m’lady” Thomas couldn’t shake the absurdity of addressing a child like she was the Queen of Sheba._

_“Yes, I did,” She continued, with yet more gravity. Her skin was bone white, leaning towards grey; she looked like a stone child carved into the grave of a flesh one, he’d seen one in a church once. “I wanted to say thank you, Mr Barrow”_

_The housemaid who’d escorted him upstairs caught his eye briefly, a nanosecond flash of pity. He straightened the tie of his new livery, taking a cautious step towards the girl._

_“M’lady, there’s no need,” Thomas said softly, inclining his head “I hope you are feeling better. You’re certainly looking well, m’lady, you’ll be back in the trees in no time!”_

_Her lip wavered a little at that, the petrified stone slowly awakening to childish life. “Mama and Papa will not let me climb anymore,” She glanced mournfully at the bough pressing tauntingly at her bedroom window, the sheen of tears beginning to gather, “They will not let me outside anymore,”_

_“Did they…did they say this, Lady Sybil?” Thomas glanced at the maid, she widened her eyes slightly_ – if they have, it’s news to me.

_“No, but I know they will. Larry says I am too fragile to be out behaving like a village voy. He said I’m going to be like a princess in a tower, and when he’s old enough he will come and rescue me,” She turned her face away from him, the tears rolling gently over the bridge of her nose. “Larry is a very silly boy, who knows when he will be old enough. Mama says people ‘mature at different speeds’ and boys are always slowest,”_

_He smiled slightly at that, “Is that so, m’lady?”_

_“Don’t laugh at me,”_

_“I wouldn’t dream of it. I was only thinking, if boys age slower than girls, we’re about the same age, aren’t we?”_

_The corner of her mouth twitched slightly but she shook her head._

_“No?” He sighed, “Alright, perhaps I’m a bit younger than you, then”_

 

_She rolled reluctantly back to face him, rubbing her tears aside with the heel of her hand._

_“Since we’re about the same age, perhaps we can be friends?” He took another hesitant half-step forward, “And perhaps…only_ perhaps, _mind you, if you have a friend with you, Lord and Lady Grantham may be more willing to let you out…when you are fully recovered, of course”_

_Her eyes brightened, glittering with tears and excitement. “Will you really ask papa, Thomas?”_

_“Of course, I will. Anything for me new pal,”_

_Their shared smile was interrupted by the swift, slightly flustered entrance of the doctor. He set about checking on his patient’s progress, fingers pressed firmly against her pulse as he instructed the maid to change her bandages._

_“That’ll be all for now, Barrow” the doctor dismissed him with a flick of his fingers, “tell Mrs Patmore she will be ready for luncheon when our check-up is complete”_

_“Come back tomorrow, please,” She requested excitedly as he crossed the threshold._

_Thomas nodded his acquiescence to both demands, winking at Lady Sybil as he backed out of the room._

“Do you have any more of those?”

 

Thomas snapped out of his reverie, blinking idiotically at the proud figure in front of him. Lady Mary stood haughtily beside a stack of vegetable crates, the subtle but tell-tale lamination of tears catching the light on her cheeks. He hesitated a moment, watching her eyes harden in consternation.

 

“I said, do you have any more of those? Are you deaf and dumb?”

 

“No, m’lady,” He reached into his jacket pocket, his lip curling little. "I am not" 


End file.
